Meat thy maker, p.1
Meat Thy Maker, page 1
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by Tamar Myers
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Afterword
Also by Tamar Myers
The Pennsylvania Dutch mysteries
THOU SHALT NOT GRILL
ASSAULT AND PEPPER
GRAPE EXPECTATIONS
HELL HATH NO CURRY
AS THE WORLD CHURNS
BATTER OFF DEAD
BUTTER SAFE THAN SORRY
THE DEATH OF PIE *
TEA WITH JAM AND DREAD *
PUDDIN’ ON THE BLITZ *
DEATH BY TART ATTACK*
* available from Severn House
MEAT THY MAKER
Tamar Myers
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2023
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2023 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Tamar Myers, 2023
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Tamar Myers to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0866-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1008-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1009-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
This book is dedicated to my best friend and husband of almost half a century, Jeffrey Charles Myers. I met him when I was fifteen, and for me it was love at first sight. It was my first day attending an American high school, and I was in eleventh grade. He is the kindest man I have ever known.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank my publisher, Kate Lyall Grant, at Severn House for the opportunity to write this book. I would also like to thank my editor Sara Porter for her wisdom and skillful guidance. I also wish to acknowledge my copyeditor Anna Harrisson for a bang-up job, and of course, the art department for a scrummy cover.
In addition, I am very grateful to my literary agent of twenty-nine years, Nancy Yost, of Nancy Yost Literary Agency. I want to give a shout-out to the entire team there, most especially Sarah, Natanya, Cheryl, and Christina.
Last, and certainly least, I would like to acknowledge Alexander Byrd Myers. He is the worst secretary this side of the Atlantic. He simply cannot focus on his duties. Besides that, he is a frightful speller, and utterly incapable of typing a single word, no matter how vigorously he pecks at the keyboard. Then again, it’s perhaps understandable, given that he is a three-ounce parakeet (budgie). However, he does cheer me on all day by saying ‘I love you, sweetheart’ and ‘I’m a happy bird, because I’m your little baby’.
ONE
The truth is that not all men are created equal. To my initial surprise the Schmucker men and their monstrous sausages were a huge hit with the ladies of Hernia. ‘Bigger is better,’ is what I heard over and over again from my friends. Personally, I preferred to place bite-size bangers on my breakfast plate alongside my scrambled eggs.
But like I said, Jacob, Solomon and Peter Schmucker (three very handsome brothers), had somehow stumbled on a winning product. Schmucker Brothers Sausages went from an obscure brand to one that had customers begging their favourite stores to keep it in stock. This all happened in just a few months.
Sceptic that I am, and one who loathes following trends, I finally capitulated and bought a package of the much-coveted breakfast meat. I am ashamed to admit that I had to snatch it out from beneath the reach of a slower-moving woman with shorter arms. In my defence, that woman was talking on her phone at an ear-splitting decibel level about arranging a ‘Bazillion wax’ that day. She was so upset that I got the last package of sausages, she dropped her phone in the meat case. For all I know, she may not have been able to get her floor shined that afternoon.
My beloved husband scoffed when he saw me unpack the prized sausages.
‘Following the crowd now, are you, Mags?’
‘Absolutely not!’ I said. ‘I simply want to see just how wrong everyone is.’
Gabe laughed and kissed my cheek. ‘You’re still the same, humble woman whom I married twenty-five years ago.’
‘Not quite,’ I said, as I continued to unpack groceries. ‘I finally have a streak of grey running through the mousey brown hair.’
‘What’s a mouse without a grey streak?’ my husband said, and gave me another kiss.
‘And I’ve put on a little weight.’
‘Well, you always complained about being thin as a beanpole, and what did I tell you?’ Gabe said.
‘That you liked women with rail-thin figures,’ I said, as I put away the frozen goods.
‘Yes. But I also said that you were in danger of blowing over in a stiff wind, because your head made you top-heavy, despite your enormous feet. However, since the weight you gained is all in your ankles, you now have a good shot at remaining upright in even the most inclement weather.’
‘Thanks, dear, you say the sweetest things.’ I tossed him the package of sausages, which were now lying on the counter. ‘Here, since you’re just standing around dishing out compliments and kisses, fry these up for supper.’
Gabe gasped. ‘Breakfast for supper? The label says that they are “breakfast sausages”.’
‘Let’s break some rules. After all, I’m seventy-four – you’re seventy-five. How many more good years can we expect? Ten? Twelve? The children are grown and on their own, or away at university. Eat breakfast sausages for supper, I say. Eat ice cream for breakfast.’
‘Who stole my wife,’ Gabe demanded, as he stepped away in mock fright, ‘and replaced her with this wanton woman?’
‘Now, now, dear,’ I said, wagging a long, knobby finger at him. ‘Let’s not get carried away. The rules that we break will only be societal conventions; they certainly won’t be anything that leads us into sin. Or anyone else into sin,’ I hastened to add.
Gabe grinned. ‘Does this mean that you’re going to shed your dowdy conservative Mennonite garb, and start dressing in something more – uhm – alluring?’
‘Absolutely, dear,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to run out and buy a low-cut dress with a mini-skirt. Given my beanpole figure, it will slip down to my chunky ankles and puddle there, just inches off the ground. Then you can spray me with blue paint and enter me in a snobby art show someplace like New York, or Philadelphia.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Gabe said, as he reached for a skillet.
I grabbed another skillet for the eggs, and a pot for the tin of baked beans that invariably accompanied this meal for us. Some toast with butter and thick-cut marmalade, along with some milky tea – now that was supper.
Gabe got halfway done cutting the package open with the kitchen scissors when he let out a howl of derision.
‘What now?’ I said.
‘Mags, did you read what’s written on here before you bought this stuff?’
‘You mean the list of ingredients?’ I said sweetly, for I knew exactly to what he was referring.
‘No, those seem to be on the up and up. It’s this stupid claim under the logo that these are hand-crafted sausages for the sophisticated consumer. I mean, a
‘It gets cooked,’ I said. ‘Read there at the bottom – in big red letters. Unlike other sausages, these sausages must be cooked until a dark golden brown.’
‘Dark golden brown?’ Gabe echoed. ‘Is there such a colour?’
‘Just start cooking, hon, because the eggs will take only a few minutes, and I don’t want them to get cold. How many slices of toast do you want?’
Thank heavens my Sweetie Pot Pie, whom I often refer to as the Babester, shut up and began frying, and I was able to coordinate all the dishes to be ready when needed. The sausages contained sage, ginger, cloves, red pepper, black pepper and brown sugar, and although they were a tad spicy, they were a perfect complement for the otherwise bland eggs. However, I think that young children, and some of our elderly citizens, would be put off by the two kinds of pepper – at least in the amounts that these bangers contained.
The Schmucker Brothers Sausages by the way, came in two varieties: ‘Breakfast’ and ‘Dinner’. They didn’t sell a ‘Lunch’ variety, probably because no one in their right mind would eat sausages for lunch. At lunch a thinking person should eat either a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or a tomato and cheese sandwich. No salads, ever! Salads are just an excuse to pile on all sorts of toppings and caloric dressing to make the rabbit food palatable. In the end the salad ends up having twice as many calories as a sensible, and quite portable, sandwich.
At the conclusion of the meal the Babester sighed contentedly, and suggested that we take a walk through our little swatch of earthly paradise. About a decade ago I gave away my two beloved milk cows (on the condition that they would not be slaughtered), and replanted most of their former pasture with hardwood trees. I did, however, leave a large swath that curves down to the pond, free of trees, and each spring I toss wildflower seeds hither, thither and yon, amongst the grass. Some seeds get eaten by the birds, but many make it to the ground, germinate, grow and propagate themselves. Through the middle of this flower-bedecked meadow, a narrow, well-trodden footpath leads down to the water’s edge.
As always, the Babester and I held hands on our walk. After a quarter of a century we still love each other very much. I won’t exaggerate and say that we’re ‘in’ love because, frankly, the shine has worn off these two old cooking pots, if you get my metaphor. We’ve been dented and scratched by what life has thrown at us, and by what we’ve thrown at each other. One time we almost got a divorce – even though that’s against my personal beliefs, and against the teachings of Jesus as well, unless one or the other of us had been unfaithful (which neither of us had been). My point is, why would either of us throw away a given quantity in hopes of finding a better replacement? I know all of Gabe’s faults and foibles, and I’m sure that if he thought long and hard, he might come up with an imperfection to pin on me.
We’d had an early supper, and the late spring sun was still high in the sky, illuminating all the early blooming flowers along our way. The air temperature was about seventy degrees Fahrenheit (which I hear is a heatwave in the UK). Meadowlarks were singing, bluebirds were carolling, indigo finches were warbling, the Babester was humming – except for the Second Coming of Jesus, it could not have been a more perfect evening.
I leaned my horsey head on the Babester’s shoulder. ‘I love you, Pookey Bear.’
‘I love you more, Sweetums.’
After reaching the pond we sat on a woven willow reed bench. There we snuggled in the cooling air and watched the swallows swooping for emerging mosquitoes. Neither Gabe nor I are particularly bothered by these nasty insects, nonetheless we’d slathered each other with a repellent before leaving the back porch.
Suddenly two hours had passed, and the sun was setting to the accompaniment of whippoorwills. Where had the time gone?
‘Gabe,’ I said, ‘have you ever seen a sunset as beautiful as this one?’
My husband, who was sitting beside me, squeezed my shoulders lovingly, but when he spoke, it sounded like he was sitting on either side of me.
‘No, hon,’ he said in this strange stereo voice. ‘Never.’
I got abruptly, if somewhat unsteadily, to my feet. ‘Darling, I need to go back to the house. I’m not feeling very well.’
‘Oh?’ Oh, oh, oh. My husband’s voice came at me as if broadcast through multiple speakers.
‘I’m feeling – uh – weird.’
‘Weird, like how?’
‘Like I’m in a movie or something.’
‘Yeah? Well, whatever you’re feeling, I’ve got you, babe.’ Gabe put a strong arm around me and told me to just put one foot in front of the other. He’d see that I got home and to bed safely, and if need be, he’d call Jacob Livingood, our village doctor who actually makes house calls.
‘That’s good,’ I said, ‘because I’m suddenly hungry. Hey, we forgot to have dessert.’
‘That we did, babe.’
‘We still have some of that chocolate fudge cake that your sister brought over. And an untouched quart of premium vanilla bean ice cream.’
‘A winning combination,’ Gabe said. ‘And I’ll heat up that jar of extra fudge sauce that Cheryl left.’
‘Yummy for my tummy,’ I said and giggled.
‘You’re a funny girl,’ the Babester said.
I giggled again. Me? Funny? I was about as humorous as a cod liver oil milkshake. Now that was sort of funny – no, that was just bizarre. Who was this giggling septuagenarian whom my sexy husband had referred to as a ‘girl’? She definitely wasn’t funny. Bossy, maybe. Opinionated, definitely.
No, the funny thing was that despite having eaten so much for supper, by the time we got back to the house I was so ravenous that I forgot all about my earlier sense of being out of sorts. All I wanted to do was consume chocolate cake with hot fudge sauce, topped with premium vanilla bean ice cream. Fortunately, there was an ample supply of all three.
Finally, satiated with food, my still handsome hunk of a husband led me tenderly back to our boudoir and … well, the rest of it is simply none of your business.
TWO
My name is Magdalena Portulacca Yoder Rosen, although because I was a Yoder for most of my life, that’s what most folks call me. Gabe is all right with that, because he knows what is on our marriage certificate, and he realizes that he doesn’t own me. His full name is Gabriel Joshua Rosen. Ours is a mixed marriage.
Gabe is a non-believing Jew (and yes, there can even be atheist Jews), and I am a Conservative Mennonite woman of Amish descent. The Amish don’t use electricity, they don’t own and drive cars or tractors, they don’t believe in education beyond the eighth grade, they have their own language, they dress a particular way, baptize only adults, and they don’t believe in violence.
If someone in their community violates these strictures, they will be reprimanded and be required to repent in front of the community. If they refuse to do so, or persist in their behaviour, then they will be shunned. Shunning is meant as a way to keep the community cohesive, but in my opinion, it is a cruel custom. When someone is shunned, it is as if that person is dead. No one – not even their parents – is allowed to acknowledge the sinner’s existence, until that person has repented. As a result, many shunned Amish move away and join other faiths, particularly the Conservative Mennonite Church, its closest relative.
It often happens that family members of the shunned person will begin to question key religious points of the Amish faith, or miss their relative so keenly, that they will break away from the Amish Church also. As a result, the Amish suffer a twenty percent attrition rate. However, their very high birth rate more than offsets this loss by a wide margin. All four of my grandparents were Amish, but they left that denomination when my grandfather, Melvin Yoder, bought a car when he was thirty-five. By then he and my grandmother had eight children. My grandmother decided to leave with my father when he was shunned, as did his parents, her parents, all of their siblings, along with their spouses and their parents – all told, two hundred and seventeen people eventually left the Amish fold and became Conservative Mennonites the day my grandfather refused to repent for buying a car.
